American Gangster by Max Allan Collins Page B

of the night, including the Apollo sign itself, the famous theater just across the way and down—James Brown appearing. Outside Small’s, a welldressed lineup of blacks and whites waited behind a velvet rope for the doorman’s decision on whether they were cool enough for the room. In a beautifully tailored Brooks Brothers, Frank, of course, brushed right on by and in; he was a silent partner, after all.
    Frank didn’t take a ringside table—he preferred not to be in the spotlight—and sat talking and drinking and laughing a little with two business associates, Charlie Williams and Cattano’s man, Rossi. LikeFrank, the two men favored expensive threads, nothing flashy, but sharp. Even their women, two pretty black call girls, were tastefully attired, not so heavy on the makeup or jewelry, some cleavage but no
Playboy
Bunny spillage.
    Up on the stage Joe Williams was tearing it up, doing his signature tune, “Every Day I Have the Blues.” The acts at Small’s were always big-time—last week King Curtis, next week Jimmy Smith and his Hammond.
    When applause for his signature tune died down, the singer said, “We have a special guest here at Small’s Paradise tonight, ladies and gentlemen—Mr. Joe Louis!”
    The legendary champ, still a powerful-looking man despite his age, stood and bowed, smiling shyly, and waved to the crowd, which was going wild with applause and whistles and cheers.
    After one more tune, the singer went on break but the band started up again, “Green Onions” inspiring couples to flood out to claim their tiny pieces of real estate on the postage-stamp dance floor.
    Frank looked past the dancers toward the table where the former champ sat with his dignified wife, Marva, and their guest, a stunningly beautiful young woman in her mid-twenties, her slender shape poured into a gold lamé gown, shoulder-length dark hair cascading to bare shoulders.
    Rossi, noticing Frank’s eyes were on the Louis table, said, “Twelve years. No champ’ll ever pull that off again.”
    â€œWho’s the beauty queen?”
    Charlie chortled and said, “You called it, Frank: a beauty queen.”
    Frank gave Charlie a sideways look.
    â€œA
real
one, Frank,” Charlie said with a grin. “Miss Puerto fuckin’ Rico. No kiddin’.”
    He found himself staring at her—her smile so real, so natural, her eyes dark and bright and taking everything in . . .
    . . . including Frank, when her gaze momentarily caught and held his. He didn’t look away. He didn’t mind her knowing he was admiring her; he wasn’t some gaping pervert, but a man respectfully taking in a vision of beauty.
    Anyway, their eyes didn’t lock long enough for her to get uneasy or him to be embarrassed, because both had their eyes drawn to a noisy group entering the club, some young dudes and their women striding in, loud as a gospel choir but not near as righteous, with a big ridiculous Superfly figure out front.
    Christ
, Frank thought,
what idiots
, and then he
was
embarrassed: it was his brothers, with Huey (who should the fuck
know
better!) in the lead, wearing a damn parrot-green suit with floppy wide-brimmed fedora and slung with a showcase worth of gold chains, acting like he owned the place.
    When, after all, it was his
brother
who owned the place. . . .
    Frank didn’t even let the boys and their wives and girlfriends find their way to a table before he got up, went over and took Huey by the arm and hauled his ass unceremoniously in back to a small dressing roomused by singers like Williams and comics like Nipsey Russell, empty at the moment and perfect for Frank’s purpose.
    â€œWhat is this nonsense?” Frank demanded, turning Huey toward the mirror.
    â€œWhat?” Huey said, mildly indignant, as if he had no idea what the hell his big brother was talking about. “These are my
clothes
. This is a